Coming Clean
by peanutbutterer
Summary: He's there, in front of her, just where he said he'd be - the words spilling out of his mouth as his blood spilled around her fingers, the pressure she was applying not enough to stanch the bleeding.


"Hen-" she chokes around the word. "Henry?"

He's there, in front of her, just where he said he'd be - the words spilling out of his mouth as his blood spilled around her fingers, the pressure she was applying not enough to stanch the bleeding. Not enough to hold the life inside him.

And yet -

"You're, you're -" She can't finish a sentence, finish a thought, because her brain is trying to grasp at logic and there's not a shred of it to hold on to.

"It's a long story," he says, eyes cutting to the shop. "Mind if we take it inside?"

It's then that she notices he's soaking wet, his hair dripping and his clothes saturated, like he threw them on without any attempt at drying himself. She wants to ask why he's drenched, but that question falls in line behind a myriad of others.

Abe appears behind him, car keys jingling in his hand. "Come on," he says, ushering them both into the door. "I'll make some tea."

She steps inside, the warm air enveloping her but doing nothing to remove the chill that's seeped into her bones.

She finds herself at the table, a cup of tea in front of her, Henry across from her, and she doesn't know how she got there.

He's still wet, still alive.

"You died."

He nods, almost contritely. "Yes."

"But you came back."

"Yes."

"But you _died_," she says again, because her heart is still lodged in her throat, having wedged itself there as she cried out, "Stay with me, Henry! Stay with me!" until she could no longer breathe - until he was no longer breathing.

She looks down at her lap and sees it then - the crimson of his blood, staining the skin of her hands, smearing across her pants and soaking through the fabric.

She starts shaking. Or maybe she never stopped.

"Blood," she says, lifting her trembling hands. It's all over, red and sticky, and she has to get it off. "Blood."

"There's no blood, Jo."

But there is. It's _everywhere_.

She pushes out of her chair and it tips behind her but she can't reach for it, can't stop it before it falls to the floor, because she doesn't want to touch anything, her hands hovering in front of her as she tries to keep it from dripping.

"Jo..."

"Blood," she repeats, the panic rising in her chest.

He steps up beside her, his hand falling on the small of her back. "Let's just wash it off, shall we?"

He leads her out of the room and down the hall, up the stairs and into the bathroom. His hand slips to her elbow as he takes her to the sink.

He turns on the tap and guides her hands under the flow. The water runs pink, but the red on her skin doesn't lighten.

She catches her reflection in the mirror and sees the blood smeared across her face. She brings a dripping hand up to swipe at the streaks. They don't come off. She scrubs harder, faster, blinking away the tears that are threatening to fall.

Henry grabs her hands, gently pulling them away from her face. "It's okay," he says.

"I can't get it off."

He shuts off the sink and then crosses the room, tugging the shower curtain back and starting the water.

He turns to her, cautiously, carefully. "May I?"

She nods and he reaches for the hem of her shirt, slowly pulling it over her head and dropping it to the floor. His hands unfasten her belt and then her pants, fingers brushing her skin as he slides them down her legs. She steps out of them and he reaches for her, guiding her into the shower and stepping in behind her. The water's warm and insistent, completely soaking her skin, her underwear, in a matter of seconds.

Henry squeezes soap onto a washcloth and brings it to her hand, grasping it in his own as he moves the cloth in gentle but thorough circles, white, foamy lather forming beneath it.

Slowly, he makes his way up her arm and across her chest. When the water hits her hand, washing the soap away, the skin is clean beneath it. She laughs in relief, a few tears finally falling.

He spends the next few minutes meticulously washing every inch of her, ridding her of the crimson stains she couldn't scrub off herself. Every time his body brushes hers she reminds herself he's there, he's breathing, he's alive.

He stands, meeting her eyes for the first time since he brought her here.

"Is it gone?" he asks, voice soft but thick with concern.

She nods, still standing, shivering in the shower's flow.

He starts to step out but she reaches for him, her fingers grasping his and halting his movement. She has no idea what's happening, can't categorize what she's feeling, but she knows she needs him to stay. She pulls him to her.

He sighs into the embrace and she feels his body relax, feels her own tension release as warmth finally starts to soak in.

She's practically naked, pressed against a fully-clothed Henry as they stand together in his shower, but she doesn't care. It doesn't even come close to the craziest thing that's happened today.

They stay there until the water runs cold. He shuts off the shower and retrieves a pair of towels, wrapping her up before wrapping himself. He tells her to stay and slips out the door, her heart racing anxiously in his absence, like maybe if she lets him out of her sight he'll vanish again. But he doesn't, reappearing a minute later with a folded stack of clothes.

She takes it from him, fingers brushing his as she does.

When she speaks, her voice is almost unrecognizable. "You died."

"But I'm still here. I'm always going to be here," he promises. "Always."

As she falls asleep on his couch, cocooned in his clothes and wrapped in his scent, head spinning from his story, she takes comfort in knowing that one thing is true.

_Always_.


End file.
